


They Don't Know About Him

by AineDoyle



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 04:01:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1495840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AineDoyle/pseuds/AineDoyle





	They Don't Know About Him

The phone buzzed for another News Alert. It was the third one in an hour. The curly hair boy stared at the device like it will rip his heart out, and in many ways, it would. He flipped the news alerts and read the headline: another announcement for the engagement. Physical pain clenched his heart, as he continued to read the news that he already knew:

  
_Louis Tomlinson and girlfriend, Eleanor Calder, have announced their engagement. The “They Don’t Know About Us” singer bought his girlfriend a three carat pink diamond engagement ring…._

  
It was too much for the curly hair boy as he exited out of the alert. Almost on cue, the phone buzzed for another One Direction alert. He knew he should not put himself through such pain, but he had to look.

  
Harry Styles of One Direction fame has been too busy partying to go to band practice….

  
The nineteen year old boy read the article the whole way through. It was only partially true. He did miss rehearsals, but not because he was partying. He was sad. He could not get out of bed. The band understood, at least that is what they said to his face. They probably thought he was ungrateful. They probably sneered at the fact that he could not take such good news so well. They probably thought he was selfish that the media did not fall over him like he was a prince. Guilt churned his stomach as he read the comments calling him a brat, ugly, and an asshole. They knew he was a horrible person. He was being selfish. His best friend was getting married. He should be happy, he just could not be happy.

  
The curly hair boy decided he could do something about the pain. It was better this way. The band would find a better person to sing with them. It is what they wanted; they wanted someone who was happy all the time. They wanted someone who was not selfish. They wanted someone who could be happy for a friend, and not cry all the time like a bratty child.

  
He logged on Twitter. He still had fans. He didn’t deserve them, but they deserved a proper tweet. He wrote I’m sorry… but for what. How could he write everything in a hundred and forty characters? He finally knew what to write: I’m sorry for the past and present. Much love.xx. Perfect.

  
The young singer went into the bathroom, and filled the tub of warm water. He filled it with rose petals, bubbles, and bath salts. He was going to enjoy this. Scents of lavender and roses filled the large room. He prepared the room and prepared himself. He picked his favorite bathing suit to wear. He was going to look decent when they find him. He was not going to embarrass his mother, again. No, he was going to have dignity for once. He prepared how he was going to perform the deed. He wanted options. On a shelf he placed a plugged-in hair dryer, some sleeping pills that he used for tours, and a single straight razor. Yes, these would suffice. He would be successful. He did not cry however. Perhaps he had no more tears to cry.

  
He climbed into the tub. The water enveloped him like a soft blanket. He closed his eyes and allowed him to be alone with his thoughts. His thoughts; they were so loud. They screamed at him with anger and force. They called him a coward. They called him horrible. They called him worthless piece of shit. They called him not worth the bother. They told him that he was evil for giving up. He slid further into the tub. The water blocked all the noise and cradled him like the arms of a mother. He could not hear his thoughts. He could not hear the shouts of four friends frantically searching for him. He felt at peace for the first time in weeks and he wanted it to last.

  
Soon his lungs wanted air. He really should surface and obliged their protests, but he stayed where he was. It just felt too nice here. He was at peace.

  
His lungs were screaming and panicking, but still he remained where he was. A little longer he promised himself then he would surface again. But alas, he remained as his lungs instinctively inhaled. Water filled his chest. His swallow tattoos bucked at the shock of liquid entering his lungs.

  
His head started to swirl. It felt great, like being on a ride. He wanted to see where his ride took him. Images swirled around. Some were of great times of his past, others were the hard times of his present. He really should surface, but what was point. Above the water was pain and sorrow, underwater was safe and comforting.

  
He went numb. The comforting softness of being without feeling felt too good. He almost could not feel any pain. The numbness surrounded him like a cocoon. Eventually it will take away his pain. It will bring him peace. He almost felt nothing. He almost couldn’t feel his upper body being lifted up. He almost couldn’t feel air being breathed into his lungs. He almost couldn’t feel his chest being forced to cough up water.

“I don’t think he used any of the pills,” said a familiar high-pitched voice, “tell the dispatcher his lips are no longer blue”. The young boy was taking deep breaths of air and coughing up the rest of the water. He opened his eyes trying to focus of the figure before him.

  
There he was. The boy from Doncaster was looking at him. His blue eyes were encased in red and tears stained his cheeks. He held the younger boy’s head studying him. He was fully clothed in a Gucci suit sitting in chest deep in water sharing the tub with the boy from Holms Chapel. He looked dapper with his hair slicked back and his designer suit.  
“Isn’t that dry clean only,” the younger boy asked. He was answered with a frustrated snort and a choking laugh at his silliness. The Doncaster boy gently squeezed the hold he already had on the young boy’s face and shook him ever so gently.

  
It was then that the curly hair boy noticed the others. Two were on the cell phone and the other one cradled his shoulder; apparently he broke down the locked, bathroom door. All of the boys looked like they were crying as evidence of their bloodshot eyes.

  
“Why would you do this to me,” demanded the twenty-one year old sharing the tub with him. The younger man could only cry. And cry he did. He cried when they brought him out of the tub. He cried when they wrapped him in a robe. He cried when they laid him on the bed.

  
“Cancel your plans boys,” said the eldest singer, “we are not leaving him tonight.” He stripped his wet clothes and donned a spare robe and climbed into bed with the crying boy. Tearfully the younger of the two placed his curly head on his friend’s chest and made himself as small as his six foot frame would allow. He was joined by the other members of his band. He was surrounded by them, holding him close at least for tonight.

  
“I still love you,” the youngest boy said to the eldest boy’s chest.

  
“I will always love you,” the eldest boy replied to the youngest boy’s still wet, curly hair.

  
Not tonight was his last thought of peace. He will not commit the deed tonight, but that does not mean ever.


End file.
